


Indelible

by rageprufrock



Category: Macdonald Hall - Korman
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-05
Updated: 2010-01-05
Packaged: 2017-10-05 20:25:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/45742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rageprufrock/pseuds/rageprufrock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruno is in the closet. No, like, for real.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indelible

Bruno is in the closet.

For the fourth time that week, Boots walks into room 306 to find his roommate in the closet--again.

He's on his hands and knees and he's making scratching sounds into the back corner, the part you can't see unless you've got a flashlight and are completely insane. Like Bruno.

At this point, Boots knows better than to ask. It's finals week and Bruno is either learning the entire curriculum associated with any given class in the space of two hours or throwing a fit at the thought of leaving Macdonald Hall, which is great, except that he is.

Leaving, Boots thinks weirdly. For the first and last time--the only time. It feels like Bruno may have been here forever, that the Hall started when they got here that year, and that now that they're gone it will be gone, too.

So Boots just throws his books on his bed and thumps down into his chair to learn about the ruins of ancient civilizations for his world history exam tomorrow. And when he falls asleep four hours later, Bruno is finally crawling out of the closet, he is dirty and his fingers are bleeding, but Boots is busy with his own heart breaking, and today, he just doesn't have the strength to ask.

*****

Boots aces his English exam, and writes so near-incoherent paper about exile and enlightenment, comparing Margaret Atwood's Handmaid's Tale and The Scarlet Letter, which he figures he'll probably get extra points for just because he used Canadian literature.

His afternoon world history exam doesn't go quite so well, but he sees Bruno whizzing through the test, pen moving furiously across the page, talking about World War I and Canadian involvement, about attempted empires and realities, about death and conquest and overthrow. Boots can't help but smirk, Macdonald Hall is Bruno's microcosm--and one day Bruno will probably rule the world, just like he rules Macdonald Hall.

When Mrs. Harris calls the testing period to a stop, she keeps them all in the room for a few minutes so she can stutter out of a farewell, you've all been so very lovely speech between her gasping sobs and trembling lower lip.

Boots gives her tissues, because that's the sort of thing he does.

Bruno, on their way out, taps the tenuous world map just right, and sends it zipping back into its metal column with a swish and a loud thwap of the wooden dowel at the bottom against the map's container, and runs down the hall laughing while Mrs. Harris shouts.

"It's been a slice, Mrs. Harris!" Bruno yells.

"If you weren't graduating you'd regret that for life, Walton!" she yells back.

But she's smiling now, and Boots follows his roommate sheepishly.

Yeah, they've each got their thing.

*****

By mutual agreement, they're not talking about how they're leaving school.

Bruno is going to Georgetown, because world domination is that much easier when you have a degree in government--also because every male in his family has gone there since something totally ridiculous like 31 AD.

Boots is going to NYU to study English, much to the complete dissatisfaction of his father.

"I hear there's buses," Bruno said one night, five minutes after Boots thought Bruno had already fallen asleep. "You know. That go between DC and New York. Couple of times a day--I looked it up. The tickets are just ridiculously cheap."

"That's cool," Boots said then.

"I thought so," Bruno replied quietly. "So if you hate NYU, you can always come visit me."

Boots laughed, and said, "Yeah."

And then they'd said goodnight, and pretended to sleep because it was better than figuring themselves out. There're a lot of unanswered questions in the air between them, and Boots has never been good about adventuring. It is so much untamed territory, with sharp turns and uncomfortable truths, and Boots realizes that the hardest part of all of this may be having no excuses anymore.

*****

Boots wakes up at nine the next morning and sees that Bruno's not there.

It takes a few minutes to register this, and there's panic when the realization filters in: what is Bruno doing? Where is he doing it? What is on fire? Are they going to be expelled? And only tangentially, because it seems unthinkable and impossible--is Bruno hurt?

A minute or more passes before Boots' brain kicks into gear and informs him that it is Tuesday, that Bruno has a nine AM exam and Boots has none at all. Tomorrow morning, Bruno will wake up at noon and Boots will be summarily failing Trigonometry, and the day after, they'll both stagger out of their Physics classroom on the verge of tears.

So Boots groans and turns over on his side to see the flashlight on the floor of the opened closet door.

Boots' clothes are already packed. He's been living out of his suitcase for about two days now and it's weirdly just like having all his stuff in the drawers of the room. So Bruno's shirts and pants are crammed onto his side of the closet still, and there are two or three pairs of well-worn sneakers near the flashlight. Bruno's desk is clear but for a thrown-open suitcase where Bruno has thrown all of his jeans and shirts. It's not really packing, but it's a start, and Boots can't help but to be proud of his positive influence. Boots' clock is already unplugged.

"We don't really need two," Bruno said before. "You can go ahead and put yours away."

So Boots unplugged his clock, and then they went to bed, and Boots had fallen asleep watching the red numbers on Bruno's and thinking that's what all of this is about anyway: time, and it running out on them.

From his bed, Boots thinks the room looks half-lived in, like whoever was there hadn't stayed very long, or didn't want to, and the thought makes him off-handedly furious, like someone has said this to his face.

That's not true, he thinks, and rolls out of bed, thumping angrily to the closet door and slamming it shut. That's not true at all.

*****

It's a small life, but it's theirs, Boots thinks, and stands in the shower, feeling hot water rolling off of his shoulders and down his back, pooling around his toes, already-lukewarm. It's their small life in their small school, with their small circle of friends and big circle of onlookers, doing their small and all the same very large things. It's all relative, Boots thinks and curls the fingers of his left hand around his cock, stroking lazily.

The first time that Bruno kissed him, it was a Tuesday morning at half past four, and they were sneaking back into the room after the very first poker night slash smuggled alcohol party of their lives. Boots was sixteen and Bruno was very drunk. His mouth was chapped and Bruno's tongue tasted like Rolling Rock.

"What are you doing?" Boots gasped, when they pulled apart.

"I'm bored," Bruno admitted, and kissed him again. "And you're my best friend."

So then Boots had kissed him, because all of it had made so much sense that way. And it was their thing, just like they each had their own thing--this was their thing, Tuesday morning makeout sessions and fumbled groping.

"It's like practice," Bruno said, and slid his hands up Boots' shirt. "Figuring it out."

"Yeah, friendly-like," Boots agreed, and then he'd stuck a hand down Bruno's shorts and grabbed his dick.

And the first time they fucked, they made a different set of excuses. Because fucking around is hugely different than fucking Bruno, than being fucked. And Boots needs good reasons for why the first time Bruno sank inside him, they had their fingers linked, foreheads pressed together, breathing together. Like they were melting into silence or finding themselves in this moment and not just figuring shit out anymore--because they could have probably extrapolated from all the other stuff.

Boots braces his arm on the wall of the shower, drops his forearm, and jerks himself hard. If he shuts his eyes tightly enough, pretends hard enough, he can go right past their neat list of reasons and explanations and go right back to that stupid, pointless Friday night he and Bruno had sex the first time, breath hitching and hips swaying, surrendering and terrifyingly simple.

The water's loud enough that Boots doesn't hide his groan when he comes, feeling his knees slacken and he leans hard against the tile wall, feeling cool ceramic on this back.

Ironically enough, they stopped for the same reasons they started.

"You're my best friend," Bruno said, a month ago, eyes huge. "I was bored."

And Boots, because Bruno's right, Bruno's always right, just nodded and said, "Okay, yeah."

*****

Boots eats lunch in the sparsely-populated dining hall, and halfway through his hamburger, Pete Anderson collapses into the seat next to him, looking as if he's barely escaped from certain doom.

"I'm going to be a ninth year senior," Pete croaks, and puts his head down.

Boots swallows and says mildly, "I'm sure it's not that bad."

Chris Talbot trails in, hair in a wild mess on the top of his head. There are smears of paint all over his face, and he smells like paint stripper. "I haven't slept in a week," he announces, sliding into a chair and smiling dreamily. "But I finished all of my paintings."

"Which paintings?" Boots asks.

Christ stares at him in confusion. "Of course I haven't voted," he says nervously.

Boots blinks, and then decides that communication is not at all part of the Macdonald Hall tradition during exams week. For reasons including but not limited to the fact that Chris Talbot could always be counted upon to be completely high due to excessive inhalation of chemical fumes while frantically finishing his artwork, the fact that Pete Anderson routinely rediscovered religion, Wilbur Hackenschleimer will eat out a small nation.

And Bruno can always be expected to be completely silent for a solid week, and ace all but two of his exams, one of which he was fail deplorably and the other in which he will receive a C.

There are clockwork motions to the clockwork nature of a school, and Boots knows Macdonald Hall like he feels the regulated motions of his breathing, like he knows Bruno.

But the tidal pull of Macdonald Hall is receding forever now, and Boots can't help but think about the moon falling away, out of the dark sky and oceans pouring onto land, drowning all life, flooding everything in haunting, endless blue.

*****

The thing is, it's easy to be with Bruno. With or with.

As far as Boots knows, no one has ever suspected anything. It's not like they acted any differently. Bruno and Boots were still roommates and best friends, perpetually in trouble and Boots always ate breakfast alone and lunch on Bruno's right hand side, which might have been symbolic except Bruno was left-handed.

Whether they're friends with benefits or just friends, it seems that some things never change.

Bruno's eyes still linger on him too long, and they are both strangely quiet together, like they are okay with not saying anything at all. And Boots always knows that Bruno will do anything for him--anything at all, without question or hesitation or concern for himself or a damn for the rest of the world. That is power he never anticipated having.

When Boots gets back to the room, Bruno is asleep in his bed, shoes kicked off and shirt riding up along his back. He is lying belly down and snoring lightly, long, long lashes throwing shadows on his cheekbones and his hair is longer than Boots remembers.

He almost runs his fingers through it, just to push all the wild strands of it back where they belong, stroke his palm down the back of Bruno's neck.

That's not okay anymore, Boots knows: just one of those things they don't tell you when you decide to lose your virginity with your best friend.

*****

When Boots wakes up the next morning, Bruno is in the closet again, scratching away.

He really doesn't want to know, so he just rolls out of bed and stumbles into the bathroom and then out to an exam. It's as horrible as he thought it would be, and Boots feels somewhat violated when he turns in his answer sheet. When he gets to room 306, Bruno's gone. There's a note on the desk: HOLDING INTERVENTION FOR CHRIS. DON'T WAIT UP.

So Boots takes Bruno's flashlight and crawls into the goddamn closet.

*****

Boots runs his fingers over the grooves in the wood before he holds the flashlight in his mouth, lips curved around it, and some sick part of his head wonders what Bruno would do if he saw that, Boots performing oral sex on inanimate objects.

On the side wall, to the back, where no one can see unless they have a flashlight and are crazy like Bruno, there are rows and rows and rows of carefully scratched-in words marring the walls. Boots wonders how Bruno did this, if it was with the point of a pen or the sharp end of a compass, if he used a pocketknife and sliced himself as he tried to write the word THIS.

And Boots runs his hands over the words, strung together into half-sentences and then cut into the wooden closet wall like commandments on stone, feels the rough edges and splinters brush against the pads of his fingers.

It's like life history, or a book of memoirs copied out by hand, and Boots reads them by sense.

JIGGLE THE TOILET HANDLE IT'S NOT BROKEN IT JUST HATES YOU, Boots reads. MR. FUDGE CAN SLEEP THROUGH NATURAL DISASTERS BUT NOT YOU UP TALKING PAST LIGHTS OUT.

And Boots reads all of these, feels them--THE SANCTITY OF THE HALL ABOVE ALL ELSE--like he feels the weight of eight years pressing down on his heart. His throats all closed up with wanting to cry, like he's wanted to cry this last month, for all that he is going to lose when he leaves--BEWARE THE FISH--this place and goes on with his so-called life.

Before his eyes can get too blurry and Bruno gets back into the room, Boots scrabbles around in his pocket until he finds a ballpoint pen. Hands shaking, he holds his palm to the wall and scratches in underneath Bruno's neat rows:

STICK TOGETHER. EVERYTHING WILL BE FINE.

*****

Later, when Boots wakes up in the middle of the night, he can feel Bruno standing over his bed, so he keeps his eyes closed and makes himself breathe deep and slow. He can smell the turpentine and paint on Bruno's skin, cool night air from the window, and his sheets, which smell like Bruno because Boots hasn't washed them since that last night.

"You're my best friend," Bruno says, barely even a whisper, just something scraped out of his throat and Boots can hear how much it hurts to say. "I was bored."

It makes Boots furious all of a sudden, angry enough that his eyes snap open and he sees Bruno's scared-white face looming over him, mouth open and pink and obscenely wet.

It makes Boots grab Bruno by the arm and jerk him down to the bed, shove him by both shoulders into the mattress and kiss him furiously. And it takes a minute or two for Boots to register that Bruno isn't pushing him away. It takes a minute for Boots to realize that those calloused fingers tugging at his t-shirt are Bruno's--and then they are skin to skin, mouth to mouth, tongues sliding against one another and fingers and legs entwined.

"Just because that's true doesn't change it," Boots growls. Whatever "it" means.

"You always told me to figure out when to quit," Bruno gasps back, hand between them, between Boots' legs, which all-of-a-sudden makes talking not enough.

Boots bites the curves of Bruno's neck and he groans as Boots fits the two of them together like puzzle pieces, sliding against Bruno, into him, with him. And all he can think when he gets there, hears Bruno cursing softly into his collarbone, fingers bruising his arms as they grip him for balance, is that this is where he has been all along.

And it's not pretty or sweet or playful like the other times. What is in the air between them is electric-charged, dangerous, overflowing, and Boots can feel it rumble through his veins like an angry shout, knock around the concaves of his chest. But this is Bruno, he thinks half-crazed, and nice has never been an issue.

So Boots braces his arms on either side of Bruno's head and hits that rhythm, the one that makes Bruno melt out beneath him, lazy and boneless, body pleasure-soaked and heavy. So that Bruno is arching his body, and Boots can really look at him, run one desperate, grabbing hand through Bruno's wild brown hair and say as he fucks him into the mattress:

"Please, Bruno, please, please, please."

And through a haze as he comes Boots thinks he hears Bruno crying, "I can't, I can't anymore."

*****

On the one hand at this rate they're both going to fail out of senior year and end up at the Hall for another year, which, ironically, will remove at least one of their problems.

On the other hand, it makes sure that Boots isn't late for his morning exam, because Bruno never sleeps as well with someone else--totally a sign, Boots admits--than alone, and he shakes Boots awake at eight o'clock.

"You have a test," Bruno says. He looks tired and there's a bruise on the corner of his mouth, a larger one on his neck, and in daylight it makes Boots ashamed. "You're going to be late."

"Wow, it's the end of the world," Boots says, automatic.

And Bruno laughs, like it's still okay. Like Boots isn't a coward and afraid of doing this and begging Bruno to do it for him, for them, for this. Like it's okay that Boots is not as good a friend as Bruno is.

"Hey, I got up for my other exams," Bruno says mildly, and shoves Boots off of him. "Heavy."

Boots looks around for his underwear and pulls on some jeans, and this is all weirdly normal. He takes a glance at the bed and Bruno's lying on his stomach now, watching him studiously, chin on folded hands, half-covered by Boots' sheets.

He wonders if it's always been building up to this. To Bruno letting Boots know he'll do anything for him, like it's all a foundation to this incredibly complicated house that Boots is going to have to build with his bare hands. And then Boots thinks about Bruno's fingers, stuck with splinters and accidentally split by his pocket knife, all the words cut into their closet wall, thinks about their eight years of history and about blood smears on the dark wood.

He is halfway out the door when he says shyly, "We're best friends."

Bruno says back, "I was bored," like it is rote.

But Boots looks at him a long time and murmurs, "No, you weren't."

And then the smile on Bruno's face is glorious.

*****

They don't talk about the fractured novel that is being written via slow vandalism on their closet wall, and Boots is totally okay with that. They don't talk about "them" and they don't talk about their future or what kind of curtains they want. Most of all, they don't talk about what country they're going to live in, when they live in it together.

This is one of those moments, Boots thinks, crazy and stupid--and this is so stupid, the worst idea ever--where Bruno would be pounding the table and talking about the world crumbling all around them.

Just like always, Bruno starts it, and Boots will help him finish.

So now, they take turns at the closet wall, and when Bruno's at his last exams, Boots carves pearls of wisdom--TRY TO STAY OUT OF TROUBLE--and when Bruno comes back, he adds on his own personal philosophy: AND IF YOU CAN'T AT LEAST DON'T GET CAUGHT.

*****

Bruno is staying through the two days before graduation, and Boots' parents and driving up, so they technically have one more night together, before Boots gets dragged into normal togetherness. His mother will cry, his father will be proud in spite of himself, and Bruno will be adorable and charming, and no one will believe that he has taken twenty years off of The Fish's life.

"I feel kind of sick," Boots admits the night before his folks get there.

Bruno who has taken the subtle transition in their relationship as an invitation never to wear pants again, apparently, just grins and leans back on his bed in a way that he thinks is very attractive. Boots will probably chew off his tongue before he admits that it is.

"No need for nervousness, Melvin," Bruno soothes. "Your mom loves me."

Boots scowls. "Because she doesn't know you."

Bruno puts a hand over his heart. "That hurts me. Right here."

Boots stuffs the last of his things into his bag, and then turns out the single light left in the room before shoving Bruno over on the mattress and laying down beside him, hands folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling. For the moment, there's nothing between them but familiar, comfortable friendship, and Boots wonders how other people do this without that--if they are constantly burning with lust or nervous and terribly in love. The middle ground is the only reason they haven't killed each other yet.

"So," Boots starts waving his hand in the air. "You have no idea what we're going to do."

"No," Bruno says cheerfully.

"Like, none whatsoever."

"Zilch. Nada. Nothing. Melvin, I am a blank canvas," Bruno declares.

Boots gets the weird feeling that this is all some cosmic joke.

"But we'll figure something out," Bruno adds at the last minute.

And then his hands are tugging Boots close to him, until they're curled up into one another, eyes closed, faces close. It is intimate, in this small place, and Boots takes Bruno's hand, links their fingers together and he says, "Yeah. We always do."

That's good enough.

*****

I HOPE YOU FIND WHAT YOU ARE LOOKING FOR LIKE I FOUND WHO I WAS LOOKING FOR. GOOD LUCK. MACDONALD HALL FOREVER.


End file.
